


New Year, New Us

by Elle Gray (LGray)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Ron Weasley, Awkward Conversations, Bisexual Harry Potter, Bisexual Male Character, But no actual coitus, Coitus Interruptus, Coming In Pants, Countdown at Midnight, Dirty Talk, Doing unsanitary things in the kitchen, Draco has a heart, Draco's Patronus is a fox, Elevators, Frottage, Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Lemon Tart, Love, M/M, Making Out, Male Friendship, New Year's Eve, Party, Pavlova, Secret Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 09:45:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17281715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LGray/pseuds/Elle%20Gray
Summary: Six weeks ago, Auror Potter and Auror Malfoy were separated. No longer partners. No longer friends - not properly, not when they're blaming each other for the split. It's not 'til the Ministry's New Year's Eve Party, while Harry's waiting worriedly for Draco to return from his last job, that it's suggested there might have been a very particular reason for their separation. And it's not what Harry thought it was.





	New Year, New Us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magpie_fngrl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magpie_fngrl/gifts).



> For Magpie_fngrl, because. Big thanks to Quicksilvermaid for the beta.
> 
> ***

It wasn't the worst New Year’s Eve party Harry had been to. It was  _ weird _ , certainly, to be technically at work for a social event but it wasn't inherently  _ bad _ . The Atrium had been adorned for Christmas last time he'd seen it, and at some point between then and now, someone had transfigured all the wreaths and holly into starbursts and snowflakes and the red and gold had become pink and silver. The effect of this alongside the dark green tiling was… watermelony, actually, but again, not  _ bad _ . He at least found it mildly amusing that no one had been able to get rid of the mistletoe. And there was one stray Santa hat in the fountain still, sitting low on the elf's head and hiding his eyes. Probably a good thing, as there was detritus building up on the buffet tables as people drank more and more champagne and got more and more careless about where they put their still-half-full glasses. If they weren't empty, the charms didn't work, and they stayed put rather than sending themselves back to the kitchen. It was going to be a nightmare to clean up, even with magic. Drunk idiots.

 

There was a chance Harry had had a bit too much to drink as well, he was warm and a little fuzzy, but at least he was being considerate with his glassware. And with free champagne on offer and a handful of things weighing on his mind, it was a choice between systematically drowning those things or sneaking off home and he didn't think he'd get away with the latter. This was the first moment he'd had to himself all night, between Ron's bitching about his partner and Hermione talking about baby stuff, and Lisa and her gaggle of admin girls spilling wine and secrets all over him like that might attract his affection somehow. 

 

He'd found out from one of them that Robards was leaving the MLE — Katy worked in accounts and someone had been preparing something for his pension, and she'd put two and two together and made a dramatically hushed announcement that, quite frankly, pissed Harry off. She had no right to go around telling people things that didn't concern her. He had half a mind to tell Robards what she was doing and watch him rip the bint to shreds. He'd want to tell everyone himself, Harry knew. His Aurors. His work-children. It was good, having a boss like that. One that looked out for you - even if they did make choices you didn't understand.

 

Robards is across the room now, talking to someone Harry doesn't recognise, a glass of what looked like whiskey in his hand. Garnered from somewhere other than the bar, no doubt, possibly from upstairs in his desk. He looks relatively relaxed and Harry wonders if he should go over and say something about him leaving. Before anyone else found out and it got around without Robards knowing. It'd be decent to give him a heads up. It's what he'd want for himself. He certainly would've appreciated fair warning about a few other things in his life: You're a wizard, Harry; you're a horcrux and you're probably going to die; Auror training is harder if you don't actually have N.E.W.T.s; your new partner is Draco Malfoy; your girlfriend doesn't love you anymore; there's a good chance you're bisexual; we're taking Malfoy away from you now and we're never going to tell you why.

 

Hmm. Maybe Harry will just let him suffer. 

 

He sips his champagne in the corner and looks around for his friends. He finds them where he left them in the thick of the frivolity, dancing and laughing and looking so perfectly content that Harry wants to crawl away and die a little bit. Not that he isn't happy for them, but really, it's hard to watch someone else's relationship work and wonder what the fuck is so wrong with yourself that no one will stay with  _ you _ . And that the one person who really seemed to get you was… removed from you. 

 

Worse, not only is Malfoy no longer his partner, he's also not even  _ here _ , and Harry's latent sense of duty, the need to protect him, is making him twitchy. Who sends Aurors out on a job on New Year's Eve? Can't they have some sort of break for once? A little respect for the holiday season at least. Not that Malfoy really has family to be spending time with, anymore. Neither does Harry; hanging out with the Weasleys means hanging out with Ginny and that still smarts a bit. Maybe work is more appealing than sitting home alone in a house big enough to hold all the people who haven't loved you enough to stick around or stay alive. Aren't they a pair. Except, well, they aren't. Not anymore.

 

'Harry,' says a voice from beside him and he turns to find his actual partner at his elbow. 

'Hi,' he says, trying to not sound resentful. It's not Akshaal's fault they were put together. It's almost logical actually, with Harry's expertise in recklessly blowing shit up and Akshaal's expertise in triage healing. It's almost like someone gave a shit about Harry when they were paired together, but then, if they cared, why'd they take Malfoy away? He was perfectly adequate with healing spells. Not painless healing spells, of course, because  _ 'if I'm gentle with you you won't remember to not do it again, you ridiculous prick'. _ But Harry always came back in one piece. Back when he  _ was _ one piece, and not just bitterness and anger and confusion held together with spellotape. And resentment. And alcohol.

'You 'right?' Akshaal bursts his bubble of melancholy again, just as it's starting to reform.

'Yeah,' Harry lies.

'The curry puffs are utter shit,' his partner says, matching his bland tone. 'Taste like an elephant's arse. It's an insult to my homeland.'

'Your homeland is Birmingham,' Harry points out, turning to look at him properly for the first time. He's wearing the most hideous Christmas jumper he's has ever seen.

'I'm Indian,' Akshaal protests.

'You're fourth generation expatriated, and your middle names are William George.'

'Are you stalking me?'

'Yes,' Harry sips his wine. 'If reading your personnel file counts as stalking.'

'They wouldn't let me read yours.' Akshaal looks put out. Like he's just found out he's really not that important.

'It has classified information in it.'

'And my entire life is just, what, public record?'

'No,' Harry smirks. When Robards had told him and Malfoy they were being separated, they'd gotten angry and drunk and gone round to the address in Akshaal's file at midnight and turned all the washing on his line various shades of pink. 'Draco and I stole your file right after they split us up.'

'Right. And you still wonder why that happened.'

Harry's mood immediately shifts and he turns with a look on his face that must be just as fierce as it feels, because his partner seems to quail slightly before setting his shoulders and meeting it square on. 

Akshaal's not a bad guy. He's a good Auror, disarmingly light-hearted on the surface, but with a preternatural eye for detail that's come in handy a few times already in the six weeks they've been paired together. Harry'd like him, probably, if it wasn't for the fact that he just isn't as good as Draco. And that even he was as good, he still wouldn't actually  _ be _ Draco. And then there was the fact that he seemed to know something about them that Harry didn't. He spared a thought for Robards and the inevitable gossip storm that Katy was perpetuating, wondering if anyone ever deserved this sick, hollow feeling of being ignorant about your own life.

'What do you mean?' he says as calmly as he can. He doesn't want to scare the guy, he just wants to know everything he knows. Now. Or he might have to kill him.

'Well,' Akshaal squirms slightly. 'It's just, that's apparently not the first time you two did something illegal.'

'It's not  _ that _ illegal,' Harry scoffs, relieved that that might be all it was. 'I would've had access to your file eventually, once we were actually partners.'

'Malfoy wouldn't have.'

'I would've told him everything that was in there anyway.'

'Also illegal.'

'So… what? They separated us because we were a liability to the integrity of the department? Because we were looking at  _ files _ ?'

'There are more stories about you two than any other partnership,'Akshaal insists. 'You once set a river  _ on fire.' _

'It was an illusion, it wasn't actually on fire.'

'The 17 Muggles that saw it thought it was a sign of God.'

'And not a sign of Wizardry,' Harry sighs, remembering that day with fondness. 'Which was the point.'

'Whatever, Harry,' he shakes his head slowly, and sips at the horridly bland beer they had on offer. 'You guys were a disaster waiting to happen and you know it. If it wasn't a liability case it was going to be a human resources one.'

'And what the fuck is  _ that _ supposed to mean?' All the relief Harry felt at the initial explanation drains away like there's a sinkhole in his chest, made solely to steal away any ounce of hope he might ever regain when it comes to Malfoy.

'It's fine, Harry, I don't actually care who you wanna stick your dick in, don't get all niche-activist on me.' Akshaal is holding his hands up in supplication, his beer held precariously just between his thumb and forefinger. If he dropped it on himself maybe he would stop talking about things that made Harry want to hurt him.

'What?' he growls, his free hand closing into a controlled fist at his side.

'You can't date your partner is all, it's deemed an immediate conflict of interest. If anything had happened that compromised a civilian they'd have all assumed you were distracted by each other and you'd have both been  _ fired _ , not just split up.'

_ 'We weren't dating,' _ Harry grinds out. 'We  _ aren't _ dating. Is that what everyone thinks? That we're too busy shagging to pay attention to our jobs?'

Akshaal shrugs and his expression is answer enough. Yes, that's what they think was going on. All the nights spent staking out illegal potions rings, trafficking operations and various dens of vice and violence… Holed up in abandoned buildings and Muggle cars, with no heat and no back-up, everyone thought they were actually fucking instead of working. Which is ironic, really. Because they  _ weren't _ fucking, but almost every second of every stake-out, Harry had wished they  _ were _ . And yeah, maybe that had been distracting. But they hadn't done anything wrong, they'd never so much as hugged each other. Harry couldn't say what it felt like to hold Draco in his arms, to feel his strong thighs flex beneath him, he could only tell you what he imagined it would feel like.

 

But no one had ever asked. And they should've, apparently. Veritaserum could've saved them, kept them together. Could've circumvented this chasm of bone-deep discomfort that sat between Harry and Draco now, with each of them thinking the other had asked for the split, and each of them denying it. And no trust to be found, because why else would they have been reassigned when they'd done nothing wrong?

 

'You know you could date him,' Akshaal pipes up. 'Now you're not partners.'

Harry turns to him in a mixed state of disbelief and hope and finds him staring carefully at the floor. Akshaal was assuming a lot. First, that Harry and Draco were both into men. Second, that they were specifically into each other. Third, that Harry would ever risk whatever he and Draco had left of their friendship on a thirsty whim. It's not like they were soulmates or anything. They got on, they worked well together. They had fun. And they could still do that. Without either of them ever finding out what it would truly feel like to press up against the other in a darkened alley, mouths hot and wet and hungry, questing, breath coming in gasps and sighs and the ever-present possibility of getting caught spurring their hearts into a frantic rhythm in their chests.

'Right,' he says. 'Thanks for that.' And he turns and heads across the floor.

 

Harry feels bad walking away from Akshaal, but sometimes he actually has the forethought to seclude himself before he acted like an asshole and this was one of those times. He scanns the packed Atrium again for a flash of ginger that would mark out his friends and spots Ron's head above the crowd. He’s conveniently near a table laden with desserts, which while not a coincidence considering Ron's ever-present appetite, suits Harry's mood perfectly. He’s hungry but he hates approaching groups of people by himself, and for some reason buffets and bars were the worst. It was too much of an equaliser, apparently, and strangers thought they were suddenly allowed to talk to him.  _ 'Oh look, Mr Potter, we both have digestive systems, how fascinating, let me show you a picture of my eligible daughter.' _

That was another perk of being around Draco. No one came near them. His intimidating performance in the Academy teamed with his notoriety and a tendency to dress like the dragonhide equivalent of James Dean made him nigh unapproachable. But now Harry was alone, all he had was his horrible temper to protect him.

'Hey, mate,' Ron says as he approaches, half a miniature pavlova in his hand. 'You alright?'

Harry sighs. 'I guess. No. Fuck.' He picks up a tiny lemon tart and shoves the whole thing in his mouth, destroying it in an angry gnashing of teeth.

'What happened? Malfoy still not back yet?'

Ordinarily it might not have seemed a weird question, and that was probably something in itself, but after the conversation he'd just had, it feels far too poignant. He swallows his lemon tart.

'Why would you ask that?'

'Because an hour ago you looked slightly uptight, and Malfoy wasn't back yet,' Ron says and shoves the rest of the pavlova in his mouth, still talking around it. 'Now you look  _ really _ uptight, and your blonde arm limpet is still nowhere to be seen.'

'He's not my arm limpet.'

'Fine,' Ron shrugs. 'Pavlova?' He held out a tiny meringue topped with cream and sprinkled with freeze-dried strawberry crumbs.

'Do you think me and Draco were…' Harry squirms. Now that the lemon tart has taken the edge off and he's slightly less mad he can't say the word  _ fucking _ anymore. Not when it means actual fucking. With Draco. 'Involved? Like… together.'

'No,' Ron says. 'It would've been pretty obvious if anything had ever actually happened. You wouldn't have been so uptight, for one.'

'I'm not uptight.'

'Mate,' Ron shook his head affectionately. 'You need a shag more than anyone else I know. Which is weird, because you're also the only person I know who could shag anyone in this room if you wanted to.'

'I don't want to.'

'Exactly,' Ron looks smug. 'Because your arm limpet still isn't back yet.'

'He's not my fucking arm limpet.'

'You ever tell him that? Because he's been doing a really good impression of one.'

'And you're doing a really shit impression of a friend.'

'What dya want me to say, Harry?' Ron sighs. 'That you don't gaze into each other's eyes like a pair of lovesick cows? That you should've stayed as partners until someone actually died because you couldn't stop staring at his arse?'

'You think we should've been split up?'

'I think you should be  _ together _ ,' Ron made a blatant gesture with his hands and Harry prays no one is watching them, wondering why someone is miming sex at him. 'Because you're miserable without him, and you couldn't be 'involved' if you were partners. Robards did you a favour, and you're too bloody pigheaded to even notice.'

'But I-'

'Harry,' Ron stops him with a  _ look _ Molly would be proud of. 'For pity's sake. If you don't believe me, ask him how he feels about you, I dare you. Or better yet, stop being so stupid and tell him how  _ you _ feel. Or maybe just stop being stupid and at least tell  _ yourself _ how you feel.'

'I think I can work out my own feelings, thanks,' Harry huffs, because it's true. He knows. He just didn't know anyone else knew. 'Besides, he's not even here, so I don't know how-'

'Harry,' Ron holds up a quelling hand and gestures over Harry's shoulder, toward the lifts. 'He's back. Go find him, would you?'

 

Sitting neatly out of the way against the wall was the luminous, wispy figure of a fox. Waiting. As Harry turns, his heart suddenly full of relief that seemed to grossly outweigh the fear he'd allowed himself to feel, she stands up. He spares a glance back at a patient-looking Ron, but says nothing as he crosses the floor, careful not to move too fast and prove himself the smitten idiot he was. Because,  _ good god, _ was it obvious in this moment.

_ Months _ he'd spent trying to hide the intensity of his interest, his investment in their friendship. And if Ron had noticed, probably everyone had. Apparently his boss had. Perhaps Akshaal was right. Maybe… maybe they could date, now. 

But just because people had noticed Harry's feelings, didn't mean Draco felt the same. Ron seemed to think so, but maybe he was biased. And since when had he been even remotely observant when it came to people's romantic feelings?

 

Harry steps into the lift after the fox and jams his finger at the button for their floor. He turns to the fox in case he's assumed incorrectly where Draco was, but she's settled in a cosy silver whirl on the floor, ignoring him. If he'd been anywhere weird, he'd have given her a message for him, so he must be in their office. Their old office. Harry didn't live there anymore. Draco's new partner, Maggie, had moved in and taken over what had been his side of the pokey little room, adorning it with photos of her horses and a large framed picture of a wet kneazle who hated Mondays.

 

The door pings open to a dimly lit hall and an eerie sort of quiet that only happens twice a year. Christmas Day was like this, and New Year’s Eve. Christmas, because no one seemed to cause any trouble and the handful of Aurors on duty tended to all gather in the kitchen and play cards, and New Year’s because everyone was downstairs. Except for Draco and Harry, now. And probably Draco's partner, come to think of it. What did the quiet mean? Were they not being debriefed by anyone? Was it a total bust?

 

He arrives at their office door and is about to step in when he notices the fox has overshot and was padding silently onward. He glances in and sees Draco's robes slung over his chair, a go-bag on the floor, and nothing else. Maggie's gear is nowhere to be seen. A tiny feeling of dread worms its way into Harry's gut. There were a handful of reasons she might not be here and he hopes it’s number three; she's gone straight out to another party. Or four: home for a bath because nothing interesting had happened at all and it was Draco's turn to do the paperwork. The weight of the first two slows his steps as he follows the fox further into the depths of the MLE, and he finds himself padding along on the carpet as silently as she is. 

 

There’s light in the break room, warm yellow spilling into the grey hallway making a parallelogram across the floor and up the wall. It looks unnecessarily happy. Harry's mood sinks lower at the heavy silence, still, even when the little white vixen turns into the room and he can finally be sure Malfoy is in there. Alive. Capable of casting a Patronus.

 

The first thing Harry notices is the unholy brightness, and the second is Draco, framed in the doorway, his long form slumped back against the counter. He's staring at his boots, or whatever is stuck to them, and it looks suspiciously rusty-coloured. He raises his head and Harry's heart breaks into several more pieces. He's been crying if the redness is anything to go by, and Harry's throat hurts just thinking about it. About not being there for him when he was needed.

 

'Harry,' is all he says as he hauls himself upright and clears the linoleum between them in two long strides. His lip is wobbling by the time he reaches the doorway where Harry is still stupidly standing, frozen, useless. He barely reacts in time to hold himself upright as Draco throws his arms around Harry's shoulder and buries his face against his hair. They're hugging. For the first time ever, and under the worst possible circumstances. At least the obvious mood of the kitchen doorway is sombre and Harry doesn't have to worry about taking any of this the wrong way. He brings his arms up and holds onto the man he's only seen cry once in their whole lives. 

 

Draco is warm and trembling and his breath is hot and loud against Harry's ear. There's more tears, he can feel them dampening his hair, so he holds on tighter, trying to squeeze his partner back together. Ex-partner. Whatever. He can feel every muscle under the skin of his back, and the bones beneath. He's too thin. Maggie isn't taking care of him. Wasn't taking care? He doesn't want to ask. Draco will tell him eventually. When he's ready. When he's stopping crying and cuddling Harry half into madness. Because if you take out the chance of death and the wet tears in his hair, he has someone he's stupidly in love with held tight in his arms, flush from neck to knee and whimpering and gasping in his ear. 

 

'You're okay,' he says, and moves his hand in a broad stripe up and down that firm shoulder blade, his other hand dropping to support Draco's lower back, draw him close, make him feel safe. The lower back is a magical place. A gentle touch can turn a woman weak, the nerves there sensitive enough to take an entire load and feel every drop. And it has the lovely side effect of drawing a man's erection hard against your own, if he has one, which Malfoy doesn't, which is normal, and Harry thinking about it is not. Not now _. _

 

Malfoy doesn't say anything when he pulls away. Harry barely manages to let him go at all. With an aristocratic sniffle, he's left standing in the doorway by himself, watching what he wants walk away again. 

 

The room is big, two round tables in the centre of the rectangular space, but down the end, on the same wall as the magically enlarged pantry and a noticeboard overflowing with photographs, is a long leather couch. It's seen better days, but none more confusing than this one, for Harry at least. It gets worse when Malfoy flicks his wand at the ceiling and the lights go out before two soft blue orbs materialise above his head. He flicks again and one of them scoots over, illuminating the space next to him on the couch. 

 

The invitation is clear. The risk, also, clear. If it were anyone else, Harry would baulk at stepping into a dimly lit room and settling next to them. Especially this sort of lighting and this sort of room, and this couch, long enough to comfortably hold all six foot of Malfoy laid out on his back with Harry draped over him like a very happy starfish might cling to it's favourite rock. But then, the pathway to potential heartbreak  _ should _ be a sad blue colour, shouldn't it?

 

He takes a breath, making a mental note that this was the moment he could've walked away and chose not to, because the only other alternative is leaving his partner alone and crying in the near-dark. Even if all of his self-preservation (and really, there's not a lot of it) is screaming at him to run like fuck, because it's one thing to think about a guy, theoretically, and another to hold him in your arms and for him to need you to _ not go _ . He stands there a moment too long, and Malfoy lifts his head, grey eyes glinting and his expression… strange. Harry wills his knee to bend, leans into the step with his hip and he's moving, his eyes fixed and his brain trying to ignore how beautiful the whole scene looks and figure out when he's seen that expression before.

 

He lowers himself to the couch, angling himself to face Malfoy, mirroring his pose, one knee up, the other foot planted firmly on the ground. One foot planted in sanity, maybe one foot out the door. He can't tell, Malfoy's still looking at him with that inscrutable expression that looks like he's found rock bottom and intends to fight back with everything he has. Maybe that's why Harry recognises it — he's been there before himself.

 

'Hey,' he says.

'Hi.' Malfoy's voice is soft and broken. 'Thanks for coming up.'

'No problem. Thanks for letting me know you were back,' he pauses, then remembers everything Ron said and doesn't have the energy to fight it anymore. He looks down at their knees, almost touching. 'I was worried.'

Malfoy huffs out a breath, almost a laugh, if laughing was sad and desperate and so near losing control it hurt to hear it. 'With good reason, it turns out.'

It's not the best thing to be told, and if Malfoy wasn't in front of him, alive and speaking, if Harry hadn't just held onto him, proving he was real and alive, he'd be terrified. As it is, he's merely half-full of dread for what must come next. The other half is that guilty sense of relief that the person he cares about is okay, that his partner's not the one injured, or cursed, or worse.

'Maggie?' he asks, his voice comes out resigned, like it's barely even a question.

'Yeah,' Malfoy's voice cracks on one syllable. 'I didn't even see what happened. They said afterwards-' he broke off, letting his head drop into his hand, elbow resting on the back of the couch. He takes a breath. Harry's hand vibrates with the need to reach out and touch him, but he can't decide if he wants it for the purest of reasons, so he doesn't let himself do it. 

'We don't have to talk about it now,' he says instead, wanting Malfoy to know there can be other times for them to be like this, even if they've not been hanging out the way they used to, lately. Before, he'd not been able to shake the worst-case-scenario of Malfoy being the one to have split them up. Now, he knows there was probably more to it than any of that, and that he might, maybe, owe his boss a thank you and a long overdue apology for being such an unrelenting dick about it.

'We do need to talk,' Malfoy says, brushing his hair out of his face, his fingers running through it, just the way Harry's wanted to for… longer than he's probably understood entirely. 'But you're right, we don't need to talk about Maggie.'

A tiny whisper of hope flutters in Harry's chest. If they need to talk,  _ now _ , it must be something serious. And if Ron was right, maybe it'll be a good sort of serious. Maybe he won't have to ask how Malfoy feels at all, maybe he'll just tell Harry outright and save him from all this ridiculous teenage-level angst.

'Okay.' He's determined to not derail whatever it is Draco wants to say, and praying it's what he hopes it is. Because coming back from this particular precipice might be too hard.

'We were there, in the warehouse, and they were shooting all these spells at us, and I was in that headspace where all you can do is defend yourself, and it's almost instinctive, because your consciousness doesn't have a hope in hell of keeping up?' He looks up from under his lashes, seeking confirmation, and all Harry can do is nod silently. He knows the feeling. He used to feel safe when that happened, because Draco was there at his back. Now he's terrified every time he and Akshaal come across anything properly dangerous, because even though his new partner gives him a better chance of survival if something does happen, he feels like it won't be worth dying for anything if Draco isn't with him. He doesn't want to die protecting Akshaal, he doesn't want to die at all, but if it was to keep his old partner safe he'd probably do it anyway. 

Draco looks up again, and it's enough to squeeze the air out of Harry's lungs a little, the singular determination on his face, the slight cock of his head, the furtive look on his face. 'I wasn't thinking about Maggie. Not really. Not an any way that mattered.' 

Harry can't help reading into it, and maybe he's meant to, because what else could it mean, but that Draco was in mortal trouble and thinking of  _ him? _

'I don't really enjoy danger without you,' Harry admits, and he wasn't really sure he was going to say it until it's out, and then it seems like a terrible risk and he can feel the blush creeping up his neck and his earlobes are burning with regret. Bubbly wine might be his undoing, if it isn't going to be the man sitting here in front of him.

'We were terribly reckless, you and I,' Draco says, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.

'Yeah,' Harry sighs. 'People have been pointing that out a lot tonight.'

Draco raises an eyebrow at him, apparently happy to interrupt their serious conversation with anecdotes. 'How's the party been?'

'Shit. Apparently I'm terrible partner to Akshaal and generally awful at my job. And no one is surprised we were separated.'

Draco almost laughs at that. He smiles at least, and snorts a little through his perfect patrician nose, and even that turns Harry's heart over in his chest. 

'In hindsight,' Draco says, slightly hesitant. 'I'm not surprised either.'

'I'm not ready for 'not-surprised', I'm still angry,' Harry admits. 'Though I'm beginning to think I shouldn't be.'

'We broke a lot of rules.'

'We did a lot of good.'

'We still do a lot of good.'

'But we don't get to do it for each other anymore,' Harry cringes internally that this is all coming out of his mouth. Someone needs to shut him up.

'I'm still doing it for you,' Draco looks away like the admission is too much, the hand resting on his knee flexing so that no one will see it shaking. Harry knows all his tells. 'When I heard her get hit, and she fell,' he says. 'I panicked for a second, and then I remembered it wasn't you beside me,' he glances back up. 'And I relaxed. I was… thankful.'

The silence is heavy with guilt and understanding. Harry knows from vast personal experience there's nothing he can say to that, so he gives in to his simpler urges and grabs Draco's hand where it sits on his knee, squeezing it in an effort to hold his partner in the present, to let him know it's okay. They've all been there. They all value some people over others. That it's nothing to be ashamed of. That he'd think the same think if their situations were reversed. That he loves his old partner to the point where'd probably kill his new partner just to keep him alive. But then those long, pale fingers twitch under his and he immediately lets go, thinking in a rush of despair that he's over-stepped, that he's reading this all wrong. But Draco just turns his hand over, palm up, and wraps his fingers around the length of Harry's thumb, keeping him there. Squeezing back.

'My partner died beside me and all I could think was that I'm so glad it wasn't you,' he says, his voice hollow and broken.

His grey eyes sparkle with tears again, and Harry just wants to hold on to him so neither of them have to feel so horrible anymore. Because Harry is glad too, that if someone had to die, it wasn't Draco. That his person came back tonight, even though someone else, multiple people, have lost a friend, or lover, a daughter or sister. Someone who liked horses and cats and those tasteless rice crackers Harry can't stand. He wonders if the horses will realise she's gone. If they'll wait at the gate for her to come and see them until they die themselves. He feels guilty for not knowing enough about horses to know if they'll mourn her when he can't. He's awful. His throat hurts. And his heart is pounding, and he feels wretched, and somehow vindicated, because wasn't he worried just 20 minutes ago that something had happened? And it did, and he was right, but that doesn't make it easier.

And he's already hugged Draco once tonight, so why not again, if he needs it? No matter that now they're sitting down, in the semi-darkness, on a large comfortable couch that Harry knows for a fact is quite comfortable to sleep on. It's probably comfortable to  _ not sleep _ on as well. He pulls on Draco's hand, reaching out his other arm along the back of the couch in invitation. Grey eyes snap to his, taking in his open posture and then flicking back again. They go wide and Harry sees him swallow, and shift forward. Then he stops, and doubt floods Harry's gut, fear he's reading everything wrong and Draco's going to think him insensitive and rude for trying to hug him, some sort of heartless cock-governed bastard. But instead he grips the back of the couch and slowly scoots forward, his eyes down, watching as their knees touch, widening his stance so he can get closer still. 

'Harry,' he breathes, eyes flitting around like he couldn't possibly look up, until he does, and grey meets green, only to dart away again, to the small diamond of couch leather still between them, their clasped hands hovering in space, to Harry's throat, his mouth. 'I don't want us to be partners again.'

'I-'

'Not here. Not at work. Not  _ for _ work.'

'Good.'

'You don't want to be partners either?'

'Not for work.'

'But you've been so upset about it.'

'Someone pointed something out tonight,' Harry says. 'Something that actually made a lot of sense, really.'

'Who?' Draco narrows his eyes slightly, fixing Harry with a brutal stare.

'Akshaal — he pointed out that if we were still partners, we, uh…' Harry panics a little, wondering if he should be saying anything at all. There was a lot to lose. But wasn't there always? What if he never said anything and next time it wasn't someone else that died. What if next time it was Draco? 'We probably wouldn't be allowed to sit here in the dark holding hands,' he says, willing himself to not look away anymore. 

'Well, technically-' Draco starts, until Harry settles his free hand on his shoulder, spreading his fingers out to claim more of him, to feel his bones through his thin shirt, to stop him from talking.

'Let's not get technical, shall we?' he breathes.

'Sorry,' Draco looks sheepish, and squeezes Harry's hand. The cool slide of of his skin wrapped around his thumb, encompassing him, is almost erotic, and the thought of those hands elsewhere threatens to dissolve Harry's conversational abilities to less than nothing. He's almost there already.

'Don't be sorry. I'm glad you're okay.'

'Me too. But I almost wasn't and it made me think about… things.' Draco strokes his thumb over the sensitive skin of Harry's knuckle. 'Things with us.'

Harry doesn't want to say anything and ruin this, what's happening, what Draco's getting at. But he also knows that it needs to not be him that says it right now, or he'll spend his whole life wondering if he took advantage of a grieving man, hopped up on adrenaline and the heady rush that comes with a hair’s-breadth avoidance of death. So instead he just nods and lets his fingers explore the warm hardness of Draco's shoulder, lets his hand shift where it wants and find the curve of his deltoid. They're too close for this to be anything but what Harry's been wanting. He watches Draco's eyelids flutter as he strokes his fingers back up along his shoulder toward his neck, pausing at the collar. He's not quite ready for skin yet. It's too forward, and then it'll really be happening, and even though he's sure that's where this is headed he's still hesitant to make the first move.

'I don't want to die not knowing,' Draco breathes, leaning into his touch.

'Not knowing what?'

'Not knowing  _ you _ .'

'You know me.'

'Not enough.'

Harry growls softly, frustrated, wanting Draco just to say something definitive instead of being politely evasive. Wanting him to declare his intentions so Harry can shove him down on the couch and smother them with his own intentions. He can picture it, practice it in his head. How he'd shift his foot back for more purchase on the linoleum floor, push on Draco's shoulder and use the grip he has on his hand to ease him onto his back. How with his knees apart, he's already in the perfect position to cradle Harry between his thighs.

'What else do you want to know?' he prods, one dark eyebrow raised.

'Everything,' Draco smirks. 

'Where do you want to start?' Harry tugs on his hand, teasing him closer, not managing to keep his gaze from Draco's lips.

'I was going to kiss you.'

'You were?' Despite knowing, mostly, that it was on the cards, hearing him say it sends Harry into slight tachycardia. It's the fact that Draco is looking right at him, probably, that he didn't just  _ do it, _ that he actually  _ said it. _

'I  _ am.' _

'When?' Harry asks, giving another gentle tug, drawing them closer.

'Any second now,' Draco breathes, and his words tickle against Harry's cheek.

'Do you need a hand?'

'Easy, Potter, save something for later.'

He lets his lips brush along Harry's jaw, the barest hint of wetness drags under his ear, hot mouth nipping at neck.

'Draco,' Harry hears his voice wobble slightly. 'Do you… Do you want…  _ later _ as well?'

_ 'I. Want. Everything,' _ is whispered into his skin between kisses and a shiver of pleasure rises to meet them. Then, without warning, Draco pulls away and gives him a calculated look. 'Do you?'

'What? Of course, I wouldn't just…' Harry feels himself start to panic again. What if they got involved and it turned out to just be about sex? Scratching an itch? What if it just didn't work between them? But no, that was stupid, they were amazing together. And Harry would fight for him no matter what. And it wasn't just sex, it was  _ everything _ . Which meant the only thing left that could separate them was death. And in a job like this, it was a wonder any of them survived to retirement.

'What aren't you saying, Potter?' he says, dropping his hand.

'Promise me you won't die?' Harry blurts.

Draco rolls his eyes and pulls his collar to the side, revealing the tip of what Harry knows is a rather extensive scar. One  _ he _ put there. 'Nothing's killed me yet.'

'Lucky you,' Harry says, and slips a button to reveal the tiny jagged mark on his sternum.

'Lucky me, indeed,' Draco says, tugging another two buttons undone with such ease he must've use some sort of magic. He slides his hand inside Harry's shirt, resting his palm over his heart, and surely he'll be able to feel the effect he's having with that simple movement?

Harry's fingers clench in the crisp fabric at Draco's shoulder as he feels himself tipping backward, a firm hand pushing him down and holding him there, warm lips finding a home against his own, and it's happening, just like that. Months of want, of torture and pleasure and fantasy, and it culminates in this, a frantic teenage grope on a couch that's not so unlike the one still sitting in the Gryffindor common room. 

Harry gets lost in the feel of Draco's mouth, slow and searching, his tongue painting lazy stripes over his lips, teeth nipping. He's so caught up in the sensations, in the filthy innocence of it all, he's not ready when he finally feels the startling hardness of Draco's cock against his own for the first time. It's not the first time a man has pressed against him, looking for friction, but it's the first time it's been Draco, and it's the first time it's felt like this. Like someone actually knows him before they're getting to know his body. 

The pressure is divine and he arches up into it, wanting more. He feels the vibration of a moan against his mouth and an answering thrust. A hand reaches for something at his thigh, and he feels his robes being pulled aside, before the sensation doubles and he gasps for air. There's nothing between them now but a few thin layers of fabric and he's so hard it seems impossible that he isn't hurting Draco, but he doesn't let up, one hand wrapping around Harry's shoulder, pulling him close and the other reaching out for the arm of the couch to drag them even closer. 

He's impressed, somewhere under the mindless bliss of kissing someone he's wanted for ages, at the length of Draco's stroke, he seems to be drawing back his full length each time, and rubbing all the way along Harry's shaft, and fuck it feels good. He breaks the kiss and turns his head, gasping for air. Draco turns his attention to Harry's neck, and he's too far gone to care how it makes his breath hitch.

He runs a hand up Draco's ribs, and notices he has one foot on the floor still, which explains how he's making this so much more than just a graceless juvenile frot, upstairs at a party in an empty room. Trust Draco to be good at everything.

Harry closes his eyes, his senses redistributing their power, and even through the gentle fuzz of bubbly wine, he feels every scrape of teeth against his neck, every delicate lick to make it better, every tiny suckle as they move in an increasingly desperate rhythm. He's panting, and curling his hips up to meet Draco's and he feels it start to build, the energy rushing through him, quivering, and  _ oh fuck, _ he's so in love with this, with Draco, with everything.

There's a distant  _ ding _ that means almost nothing to what's left of Harry brain, and a blunt knock on something far away that he barely hears over the mounting pleasure. His fingertips are tingling, the throb of his heart and his cock in unison and he's so, so close, and it seems ridiculous for it to be this easy. But he's had too much wine, and too many fantasies about Draco grinding against him all over this building. It's their familiar haunt, their usual place of contact, and to have him here, pinning him down and —  _ fuck _ — unrelentingly pummelling him with his own hardness, it's too much. Draco lets out a feral groan with a wild thrust of his hips, just at the moment when someone on the edges of reality shouts their names and Harry's gone, spilling himself all over the inside of his own pants, under his formal robes. It's with only a fraction of his usual, finely-tuned sense of situational awareness that he realises the person who shouted is Robards, and that he and Draco are dry-humping on his couch. Were. Harry's done. 

 

_ 'Fuck,' _ Draco hisses, and backs up off Harry with admirable speed, til he's sitting hunched over at the other end of the couch, secret erection hidden by his posture and his folded arms. He shoots Harry a laser-sharp glare. 'Get up, for fucks sake,' he whispers.

There are footsteps now, only just audible, and if Robards' hadn't shouted out, what would he have found instead? Harry pulls himself into a seated position, feeling his spent cock slide against the wetness in his pants. Ugh. 

 

He counts one beat. Two. Then, 'Malfoy,' comes Robards' voice from the open door, and a pause. 'Sorry to hear about Mags,’ his voice is soft, almost. As soft as it gets anyway. It’s clear the show of emotion is uncomfortable for him, and Harry looks away. ‘You’ll get the usual leave, starting after debrief. Seems a straight-forward, er, incident, though, so we can talk in the morning, if you’d rather?' He waits for Draco's nod before turning to Harry. 'A word in the hallway, Potter?'

'Yes, sir,' Harry stands immediately, infinitely glad for the thick folds of his robe that'll hopefully hide the fact that he's just come in his pants in a room meant for the sanitary consumption of food. There's not a lot that could make this more horrifying. Having a chat to his boss with come in his pants might be a new low.

'You think he'll be alright?' Robards says once they're in the hall.

'Yeah,' Harry says, only just realising the question could've been anything and he wouldn't have been ready for it. 'They weren't together very long, so…' He realises it might sound like he's making light of it and that's not right at all. 'He'll be okay, sir.'

Robards makes a non-committal sound. 'Does he need you back?' he growls, obviously reluctant to even ask. 'I know you're in a snit about being split up, even if it's for your own damn good, but we can't afford to lose him, so if that's what it takes…' He sighs. 'We can put you back together.'

Ha. There's not much chance of anything in this world putting Harry back together. Though he's decided he's going to let Draco try, because if anyone can, it's him.

'Er, actually, sir, we've… discussed that, and we're happy as we are,' he nods, decisive. 'We don't want to be partners at work anymore.'

'You don't want to be partners at work?' his boss parrots back to him, deadpan, and Harry realises that he might've been needlessly specific under the circumstances. Fuck.

'No, sir.'

'Right.' Robards' gives him a long, silent look and Harry waits him out. It's not going to work, what Robards is doing — he's not going to say anything else. Bloody bastard taught him that trick, and Harry's even more stubborn than his boss. Eventually he just sniffs, gives Harry a withering look and pops his head back into the break room. 'See you at ten in the morning, Malfoy,' he nods again before turning back to Harry, flicking a glance at his collar and… winking? 'Potter, take him home, would you?'

'Yes, sir.'

With that, he trudges back down the hallway and Harry hears him prod repeatedly at the lift button, whistling. The sound seems surprisingly loud considering how little mind he gave it only moments ago. 

He gets the distinct feeling he's been set up and yet, he's too happy to really care. Even if he is awash with swiftly cooling semen, and Jesus Christ, that's uncomfortable.

'You heard him, let's go home,' he says to Draco, mincing over to the couch to retrieve his wand and casting a quick  _ Scourgify _ over his crotch. 

'Home?'

'Come to mine.'

'Are you implying I'm too emotional to be left alone?'

'No, I'm implying you're too fit to be left alone, and it's New Year’s Eve, and I don't want  _ this _ ,' Harry waves his hand at the couch. 'To be all you find out about me tonight. That I'm overly excitable and have the staying power of a fourteen year old boy.'

'Who were you frotting at fourteen?'

'Wouldn't you like to know?' Harry says as he straightens his robes one last time and heads for the door.

'Was it Granger?' Draco asks, following him into the hallway.

'No,' Harry walks toward the lift.

'Weasley?'

'No.'

'Did you have any other friends?' 

'Hagrid?'

Draco winces and Harry just smirks as he hits the lift button. 'You asked.'

'I did,' he says, flicking his wand so his robes come whipping around the corner of their old office and into his outstretched hand. 'I'll remember never to ask you anything ever again.'

'Ok, can I ask you something then?' Harry wonders aloud, slightly hesitant.

'So serious all of a sudden.'

'Are we..?' The ding of the lift interrupts him, thankfully, and he steps in, stealing his resolve and wondering what evil twist of fate is making him ask this in an enclosed space. Draco steps in after him, crowding him into the back corner without even touching him.

'Are we what, Potter? Stalling? Waiting for midnight in case I turn into a frog? Trying to give yourself some extra refractory time?'

The slightly looming presence, the unwavering stare, the heat rolling off him, it all makes this a horrifyingly nerve-wracking question to ask.

'Are we,  _ us? _ You know. Together?'

'Are you asking if I want to be your partner?' Draco raises one elegant eyebrow.

'I guess I am.'

_ 'You guess?' _

'Fine, I  _ am,'  _ Harry couldn't help rolling his eyes. 'I'm asking.'

'That's so much better.'

'My sincerest apologies. Draco Fancypants Malfoy, will you please be my partner?'

'What are my other options?'

'Going to your own house and sucking your own dick.'

'And what would you do then?'

'Probably go home to my house and a beer and a shower and a wank like normal grown up. Possibly all at the same time, if I was feeling adventurous.'

'That was an overshare,' Draco frowns.

'You said you wanted to know everything.'

'I may have overstated it, that wasn't very romantic.'

'How about I go home and have a wank over you? Is that better?'

'Much,' and though it's said in jest, Harry would swear he sees a small twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth, right before Draco kisses him, swift and chaste. 'I don't how you could possibly get off  _ without _ thinking of me.'

'You're right. I can't even remember the last time I managed.'

'Potter,' Draco leans back a touch, brows lowered and robes clutched loose in his hand. 'Are you serious?'

'I might be,' Harry hedges.

'How long?' Draco moves back in, crowding him again, too close to think.

He shrugs. 'Months.'

'How many months?' his mouth is hovering over Harry's pulse, hot breath on his neck.

'A lot of them,' he breathes, wondering if that's smart thing to admit, considering. It must be okay, because the hot breath turns to soft pressure, the touch of lips, the drag of teeth over skin that's still too sensitive from the last time it was abused — bitten, sucked red and bruised as Draco rutted against him in the dark. Harry's cock stirs at the memory and the current situation both, they don't have time for this, the door-'

_ Pings, _ pauses and rumbles open. Draco's on the other side of the lift before Harry can even react, watching him.

'Me too,' he says.

Outside, theres a whoop and yell and blaze of light as someone conjures a countdown over the fountain.  _ Sixty seconds. _ Harry doesn't take his eyes off Draco. 

'Really?' If it's true then there's no point holding back. No point being polite and waiting for things to progress nicely, no point taking it slow. Harry hates slow. Hates nice.

'Is it that hard to believe? That I might have a heart?'

'No,' Harry takes a step forward. Pushes the door close button. 'Just that you might let me have it.'

_ Forty-five seconds. _

'I'll let you borrow it.'

Harry nods, tugs at the shiny dragonhide belt, loosens Draco's fly, grips the elastic waistband with one hand and delves inside with the other, barely taking the time for a quick  _ Lubrio. _ Draco's still hard, and he gasps as Harry wraps his fingers around him and starts pumping, fast. They don't have much time, someone could call the lift any second and the door would just open right out onto the party. Harry drags him around by the waistband, adjusting their position so Draco's back is squarely to the door, just in case. 

_ Thirty seconds. _

His breath is coming in gasps already and he's quivering, his hands gripping the railing either side of Harry's hips, holding on when he should be letting go.

'Come for me,' Harry whispers in his ear, earning himself a throaty hum and a stubbled cheek pressed against his own. His hand is a wet blur, light, fast and focused on the sensitive corona, his own cock perversely interested in what's going on all of a sudden. 

_ Fifteen seconds. _

_ 'Fuck, Harry.' _

'Soon,' he promises in a whisper, feeling Draco squirm and twitch, thrusting into his hand. Harry keeps to his merciless rhythm. 'I'll take you home and we can fuck all night. Would you like that?'

_ Six seconds. _

_ 'Yes.' _

'Good,' Harry smiles against his cheek. 'I've been thinking about fucking you for a long time,' he breathes.

_ One _ .

Draco doesn't say anything, not with words. He just crushes himself against Harry, hips bucking helplessly as the Atrium fills with happy shouts and singing and the sound of the New Year beginning.

  
  



End file.
